Page 83 of Best Man on Campus

“What if Killian doesn’t have a grave.”

“He has one. He was in the military. The social worker told me. They buried him at the New Hampshire state veteran’s cemetery in Boscawen.”

“Then we’ll do it.” I take her hand again and hold it tight, sending my message that I’m in it with her and she doesn’t argue.”

* * *

Every hockey player when they’re a kid dreams about playing in a championship game like this and I’m no different. The surreal feeling as I stand on the ice tonight holding the frozen four trophy above my head matches the dream, but I realize even this, something I’ve wanted from boyhood, doesn’t come close to the joy I feel seeing Jazzy standing at the gate with my parents, yelling and screaming and fucking crying tears of joy. I played the game of my life tonight, scoring once and assisting in two goals, because of the love of that woman. I feel it even if she doesn’t admit to it.

When we finally skate off the ice, I take my time as usual, last off the ice though I can’t wait to hold Jazzy and share my joy. The press is there and when I step off the rink they pounce. I’ve already given the obligatory on ice interview with the TV network, but this is local media and I recognize a couple of agents and scouts in the crowd.

Ignoring them all is easy as I step right into Jazzy’s arms, open like my mother usually does. But this time my mom holds onto my dad and is happy to let Jazzy give me the first hug. It doesn’t stop there because she takes my face in her hands and kisses me with the kind of fierceness that pumps my blood to the next level, and I laugh and kiss her back, not caring who’s taking pics or vids.

Chapter 22

Jazzy

Maybe it’s unfair that I insist on making this trip today. My ribs are a little sore after last night spent in my fucking horrible sofa bed. Though I tried to get rid of Bennie because he’s already sore from being banged around in the game, he stays with me and that more than makes up for any physical pain and some of the emotional pain too. He wants to stay in bed. Of course. But I can’t let this go any longer. The sense of urgency strangles me now. I know Sarah is sick and I can’t let her escape into death without confronting her. A ghost is much harder to deal with.

I need to get rid of this rage weighing on me like unfinished business, to purge it.

“My test is today, Bennie.” I slide out of bed without his help and shut myself in the bathroom to dress on my own. He whines half-heartedly because he likes getting a rise out of me, sick bastard that he is, but I wouldn’t—couldn’t—have him any other way. I need someone to appreciate my passion, good and bad. And miracle of miracles, Bennie the unicorn appreciates the fuck out of me. My heart pounds the way it does every time I think about it. I try not to, but he’s silent as he drives.

We drive to Sarah’s place first. He called ahead and it’s obvious she’s sick, but she says to come and we do. This is one reason I can’t put this off. I need to face her before she ends up in a grave next to Killian, figuratively speaking.

We knock on the door, Ben has an arm around me and I try not to feel appalled at the shack she lives in. The hospice nurse opens the door. Sarah’s in bed, impossible to miss in the small space. I almost vomit with the smell of death in the room.

The nurse says, “This isn’t a good day. Maybe you should—”

“No, it’s alright,” Sarah says, her voice high and strained, but strong in determination, like she’s using her energy reserves on talking instead of breathing or living. “I want to see her.” She struggles to sit up and we go to the bed, but I break away from my unicorn, needing to do this on my own.

My heart pumps loud and fast and I feel the rage growing like a snake rising from its coil. She bears only a shadowy resemblance to the young woman who barged into my bedroom that night with a shot gun. I fist my hands and tense my muscles in an effort to keep them at my sides, from pummeling her face, as bile rises inside me.

“Thank you for coming to see me, Jazzy,” she says. “I’ve wanted to beg your forgiveness for five years and now it’s the last thing I need to do in life.”

“Fuck—” You. I want to wrap my hands around her throat and put her out of her misery. But I can’t move. I’m frozen and my mind is frozen on that night, on all the blood. Ben touches my shoulder and I jolt away from his touch although it’s exactly what I need to move me. To get my head back to the present.

“I loved him you know,” I say.

“I’m so sorry—”

“But he was a sick person. So even though it’s not my place, I forgive you.” I say. “In fact, I want to thank you. I understand how brave you were now. Why you did it. Why you killed my uncle. Even if you didn’t, he wouldn’t have been my Uncle Killian anymore, not the man who I loved, who cared about me.” The words sound like they’re coming from someone else, a different me. They’re true, but I don’t feel them, yet something compels me to say them and it’s not some kind-hearted need to please a dying woman because that’s not the kind of person I am. The need to purge the demon of Sarah Galiskar forces me to say the words, then forces the air from my lungs and with it the anger, the boiling rage subsides. Ben squeezes my shoulders. And this time I let him, welcoming his touch, his presence.

Maybe this is who I am now.

* * *

From Sara’s hell-shack, we drive to Killian’s grave. Ben tells me how fucking proud he is of me about a dozen times and I roll my eyes every time, but only for effect. In fact, the last time he says it, I think he’s doing it only to annoy me.

“This test will be harder.”

“But it’s your final test, Jazz and then it’s all over. The demons will be gone.”

“You say that as if it’s true.” I hope it is, but I’ve been living with so much, the fierce horror and rage for five years, so long it feels like forever. Even before Killian there was my mother.

“You’re forgetting about my mother,” I say.

“She’s not a test. She’s not someone you need to forget.”